but it simply wouldnât hold a tan. Her eyes were dark green, the shade of ripe avocados. Her hair was metallic red with a brassy orange undertone. It was her natural color, but it didnât look as natural as some of the bottle blonds waiting for their kids.
Compared to the mothers, Misty had a gawky body. Wide bony shoulders, long thin arms, pigeon-toed stance, hefty tits, and a little slump in her shoulders she couldnât seem to get rid of. She practiced sometimes in the bathroom mirror in her apartment, standing up on a chair so she could see herself. Pulling her shoulders back, lifting her head up, angling her hips this way or that, but everything she did looked phony, only made her seem more awkward.
After they brought their kids to school each morning, these yummy mummies spent the morning at their health clubs burning off their few remaining fat cells in front of floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Jazz dancing or doing karate moves, keeping themselves lean and taut. Then they went home, ate a stick of celery for lunch, had a sip of ten-dollar water, and came early to pick up their kids after school, and put on this fashion show for all the other mothers.
After school some of their kids played soccer. Some went to karate class or tennis practice or golf lessons. These pampered kids, their perfect lives.
Misty had been destined to be one of them. That was her birthright. To be married to a fast-track lawyer or a surgeon. Living in this part of town, or the Gables, or along the bay, a big boat bobbing out back. Waiting every afternoon at two-thirtyfor her cute blond kid to come rushing out of school and jump into her arms.
But thatâs not how it worked out. Not how it worked out at all.
When the school bell finally rang, the mothers began saying good-bye to their friends. Some kept on talking on their cell phones as they craned around searching for their child in the throng of kids who poured out the doors. There was a lady cop directing traffic. All the lights were blinking yellow. It was a clear, pretty day, no clouds. Monday, early October, low eighties, low humidity. There was a white dog waiting outside the fence, a Labrador. It was fat and had a sway back and it stared in through the fence wagging its tail, looking for its master in that mass of kids.
It took a minute but finally Misty spotted Randall Keller. He was wearing a black T-shirt and baggy blue jean shorts that hung below his knees. He had on red running shoes and a green backpack loaded with books. He was carrying his bright pink bicycle helmet. No other kids were talking to him. He wasnât looking around for anyone. He didnât seem depressed or happy or anything. He just walked over to the bicycle rack and rolled his bicycle out and got on it and started pedaling across the playground toward the gate.
Misty started her car.
She waited for a break in the parade of four-wheel-drive monsters, then cut out into the street. Going slow for the school zone. Staying back of Randall. Watching the blond hair sticking out from under his helmet. Watching him pump the pedals, not too fast, the pack heavy on his back.
He rolled through a four-way stop and kept going straight. Misty waited her turn, then eased through the intersection and cruised up slowly behind him. He was on the sidewalk, taking it slow. Looking straight ahead, his face was red from the exertion, sweaty. She drove with her left hand and held the derringer in her right. Her passenger window was open. She wasnât going more than ten miles an hour. Her speedometer was broken, but she knew it couldnât be any faster than that.
There was a big blue sports utility vehicle right on her ass. Tailgating mom with a car full of kids. Misty was out of the school zone now. Speed limit back up to thirty, but she held it at ten or so, creeping along beside Randall. Holding the derringer in her right hand. Thumbing back one of the hammers.
Raise the pistol, aim, then fire.
Compared to the mothers, Misty had a gawky body. Wide bony shoulders, long thin arms, pigeon-toed stance, hefty tits, and a little slump in her shoulders she couldnât seem to get rid of. She practiced sometimes in the bathroom mirror in her apartment, standing up on a chair so she could see herself. Pulling her shoulders back, lifting her head up, angling her hips this way or that, but everything she did looked phony, only made her seem more awkward.
After they brought their kids to school each morning, these yummy mummies spent the morning at their health clubs burning off their few remaining fat cells in front of floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Jazz dancing or doing karate moves, keeping themselves lean and taut. Then they went home, ate a stick of celery for lunch, had a sip of ten-dollar water, and came early to pick up their kids after school, and put on this fashion show for all the other mothers.
After school some of their kids played soccer. Some went to karate class or tennis practice or golf lessons. These pampered kids, their perfect lives.
Misty had been destined to be one of them. That was her birthright. To be married to a fast-track lawyer or a surgeon. Living in this part of town, or the Gables, or along the bay, a big boat bobbing out back. Waiting every afternoon at two-thirtyfor her cute blond kid to come rushing out of school and jump into her arms.
But thatâs not how it worked out. Not how it worked out at all.
When the school bell finally rang, the mothers began saying good-bye to their friends. Some kept on talking on their cell phones as they craned around searching for their child in the throng of kids who poured out the doors. There was a lady cop directing traffic. All the lights were blinking yellow. It was a clear, pretty day, no clouds. Monday, early October, low eighties, low humidity. There was a white dog waiting outside the fence, a Labrador. It was fat and had a sway back and it stared in through the fence wagging its tail, looking for its master in that mass of kids.
It took a minute but finally Misty spotted Randall Keller. He was wearing a black T-shirt and baggy blue jean shorts that hung below his knees. He had on red running shoes and a green backpack loaded with books. He was carrying his bright pink bicycle helmet. No other kids were talking to him. He wasnât looking around for anyone. He didnât seem depressed or happy or anything. He just walked over to the bicycle rack and rolled his bicycle out and got on it and started pedaling across the playground toward the gate.
Misty started her car.
She waited for a break in the parade of four-wheel-drive monsters, then cut out into the street. Going slow for the school zone. Staying back of Randall. Watching the blond hair sticking out from under his helmet. Watching him pump the pedals, not too fast, the pack heavy on his back.
He rolled through a four-way stop and kept going straight. Misty waited her turn, then eased through the intersection and cruised up slowly behind him. He was on the sidewalk, taking it slow. Looking straight ahead, his face was red from the exertion, sweaty. She drove with her left hand and held the derringer in her right. Her passenger window was open. She wasnât going more than ten miles an hour. Her speedometer was broken, but she knew it couldnât be any faster than that.
There was a big blue sports utility vehicle right on her ass. Tailgating mom with a car full of kids. Misty was out of the school zone now. Speed limit back up to thirty, but she held it at ten or so, creeping along beside Randall. Holding the derringer in her right hand. Thumbing back one of the hammers.
Raise the pistol, aim, then fire.
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